


Smoke in the Wind

by bakers_impala221



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bisexual, Bullying, Death, Gay, Johnlock - Freeform, LGBT, M/M, Multi, Poetry, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Teenager AU, Teenagers, Teenlock, Unresolved Tension, teen!lock, teenage romance, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-01 17:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15147752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: What appears to be a perfectly normal day for John Watson, turns out to be the worst day of his entire life. When he arrives at school in the morning, he instantly knows something is wrong, but then he's delivered the tragic news that shatters his entire world.What's he supposed to do now?(Note): I'm currently reconsidering this story. I may rewrite it. And it is currently very much on long-term hiatus





	1. Chapter 1

 John knew something was wrong from the second he stepped over the boundaries of the school; the air was silent, no one spoke, and even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The second thing he noticed was this unnatural coldness that seemed to settle under his skin and rest in his bones. His muscles ached slightly as he walked on to his locker, his chest hurting as the dread settled in with the cold.

 He walked through the quiet hallways, through rows and rows of lockers, through the emptiness in the halls, feeling the absence of students heavily contributing to the dread and confusion, the sole of his shoes tapping loudly against the rigidity of the vinyl tiles beneath his feet, stark contrast to the silence ringing soundlessly against his ears. He turned the nearest corner, the last before his own locker, and was finally met with company. For a second he thought of smiling, before he noticed the continued lack of student presence.

 He looked up into the faces of the adults turning around to meet the sound of his footsteps. A few of them exchanged glances; none of them smiled, not even at his arrival. He shuffled slightly on his feet, suddenly acutely aware of all the eyes now on him, and he looked away, the sorrow in each of their faces too much to bear.

 He coughed in discomfort, but before he could formulate a question, someone stepped forward and he looked up to see the face of the principle, a soft, sad smile on their face.

 ‘John Watson,’ they said, almost questionably. John nodded, still looking around him in confusion, in the hope that he could deduce the situation as he knew Sherlock would have done by now.

 At that thought, his insides warmed softly, and he almost smiled to himself. Whatever had happened would end and all this would be over, and then the day could proceed and his friend would be there, and everything would be okay.

 His principle nodded down the hall, motioning for John to follow them, and he did, this time carelessly aware of the pitiful eyes of the teachers on his back as he walked through the empty halls.

 

  _It would be fine_.

 

 

 John had been on his way home when he’d heard it. The sound of the voices speaking harshly to each other. One deep, bored voice, and another, higher-pitched and threatening.

 John glanced around the corner into the semi-dark alley, before noticing the group of older boys crowded around the younger one. His skin was pale white, and there was a dark, noticeable bruise forming where an older one gripped his arm.

 He froze and listened to the exchange. The older boy spoke, his voice too unclear for John to understand, and then the trapped one replied, and before he knew it, he’d been punched and knocked to the ground.

 John stepped forward suddenly, filled with adrenaline. ‘Oi!,’ he called. The boys all turned to look at him, each of them looking him up and down and smirking, and his stomach dropped slightly in fear.

 ‘What do you think you’re doing, mate?’ one of them jeered, and the others stayed still, watching.

 ‘Leave him alone,’ John said as threateningly as he could, thankful when his voice didn’t shake.

 Another stepped forwards, straightening up to loom over him as best as he could. ‘Or, what?’ he said, his voice deep.

 John tried not to tremble. He had no idea what he was doing. He glanced down at the boy on the ground. He had sat up, and was slowly getting to his feet. The bruise on his cheek looked bad, but his head had landed on his arm, which was miles better than the stone paving.

 John looked back at the guys in front of him and tried not to panic. ‘What did he do to you?’

 The one who’d thrown the punch spoke up, ‘oh. Sherlock?’ he laughed, ‘we were just putting him in his place. Right, boys?’ he shrugged like it was nothing, an unpleasant smirk on his face as his friends agreed.

 John didn’t know what to say. Then he looked back at the other boy -Sherlock- and noticed he was staring at him intensely, his eyes narrowed, not in hate, but in… curiosity. Interesting. He took a quick glance around the alley and noticed a ladder a few feet off the ground that led to a stairway. It was too tall for him to reach, and he couldn’t get to it without passing the others anyway, but Sherlock definitely had the height to reach it.

 John glanced down to his hand, and then back up at the boy very quickly, to see that he had followed his gaze.

 ‘What did he do?’ he said loudly, as he moved his finger slowly and pointed in the direction of the staircase, relieved when Sherlock had turned to inspect.

 ‘See, Sherlock here seems to think he’s always right about everything, even when he’s not,’ one of them sneered. ‘We tried to tell him that he was wrong, but he wouldn’t have it. We just couldn’t let him continue to live in his ignorance.’

 John could see Sherlock scoffing silently out of the corner of his eye, and had to fight to keep himself from smirking.

 ‘Well, maybe you aren’t always right,’ John said, taking a step back slowly. ‘I mean, I don’t know, but… seems a bit ironic to me. You should leave,’ he glanced at Sherlock, then back to the boys, ‘-it.’

 And before he knew it, Sherlock was running down the alley and John had turned swiftly and was making a run for it down the street, all four of the boys on his trail.

 He took a full circle of the block, panting by the time he’d gotten to the other end of the alley -the other boys far behind- and he made his way back down it, his breathing hard and his heartbeat a little loud in his ears.

 He almost held his breath in anticipation as he reached the staircase and looked up, hoping to catch sight of the other boy.

 When he couldn’t see him, he glanced at the ladder and tried raising his arm to reach it, cursing his height when he couldn’t.

 ‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you,’ a low voice startled him out of his thoughts. He turned to face him. ‘It _is_ far too high for you. I almost didn’t make it.’

 ‘Yeah, sorry. I couldn’t think of anything else.’

 Sherlock glanced away awkwardly. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

 John raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t endorse bystanding violence.’

 Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully.

 ‘-I don’t think that’s a word-’

 ‘Shut up.’

 Sherlock looked at him for a moment, and John dropped his fake dignity and giggled.

 Sherlock frowned in confusion. ‘-What?’

 John looked up at him, ‘nothing, just- I can’t believe _that’s_ what you’re focused on.’

 Sherlock smiled. ‘One of my many fine qualities.’

 ‘I can see.’

 ‘Yes, but “ _Bystanding,”_ though.’

 ‘Oi, shut up. I did my best,’ he replied, laughing.

 ‘Yeah, I know,’ Sherlock replied, his voice softening.

 John looked back at him, suddenly much more serious.

 ‘You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?’ John said suddenly.

 He nodded. ‘I’m from your school.’

 John eyed the bruising on his left cheek and the cuts along his arm, then looked back up at him. ‘Hi, I’m John Watson, and I insist you come home with me so I can look at those cuts.’

 

 

 The air of the principle’s office felt no different from the rest of the school. It was cold, even though the day hadn’t been, and the only light source was the sun filtering in through the window in the corner of the room, a tree positioned just in front of it, with its leaves rustled softly in the wind and splaying dark, dancing shadows on the carpet.

 ‘Take a seat, John,’ they said, and he snapped his head up in response, before he moved to sit in front of their desk. They sat behind it, in front of him.

 They looked down at the table, almost as if composing themself, before looking back up at him, their face solemn and… sorry.

 John’s stomach clenched tighter, and he held his breath unconsciously in fear.

 ‘John,’ they said, clearing their throat. ‘This morning we sent messages out to all the parents telling students not to come into school until lunchtime today.’

 ‘I didn’t get a message,’ John said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Sorry.’

 They smiled sadly. ‘Actually, I’m sort of glad you’re here.’

 ‘Why?’

 They inhaled slightly in composure. ‘Last night there was an… incident.’

 John froze as they looked up at him.

 ‘I’m sorry, John…’ they said. ‘I wish I didn’t have to tell you this…’

‘But, Sherlock Holmes is dead.’


	2. Chapter 2

 It turned out the second worst part of all this was the sympathy.

 When John came back at noon, everyone knew. He didn’t look anyone in the eye as he walked, his head bowed, slowly over to his locker. He couldn’t. He was startled by the sound of Mike’s voice, too detached from his surroundings to hear his arrival.

 ‘Hey, mate,’ he said slowly. John put away his books before he looked up at him.

 Mike shuffled uncomfortably, looking down at his feet. ‘Look, I heard about what happened-’

 ‘-Clearly.’

 Mike looked up at the harshness in his tone and swallowed. ‘I know you guys were friends…’ he looked away. ‘I’m sorry about what happened with him.’

 ‘Great,’ John said sarcastically as he closed his locker. ‘Well, noted. See you, Mike.’

 John ignored the looks he got as he left the room.

 

 Students filed two-by-two into the auditorium and took their seats. When someone tried to get John’s attention, he felt his arm being tapped more than he heard his name being called, and his mind focused back in on reality once more as he looked around to find one of the English teachers looking at him expectantly. He followed him out of the crowd of people and looked up at him, waiting.

 ‘We were hoping that we could get one of Sherlock’s friends to speak-’

 ‘He doesn’t have friends,’ John replied sharply.

 He looked startled, then cleared his throat. ‘Look, I know it can be hard… but even when someone’s gone, it doesn’t mean they’re no longer our friend.’

 John stared at him, his face completely blank.

 ‘I really think you should speak on behalf of him-’

 ‘No one can do that,’ John stated blankly.

 ‘Speak _for_ him, then.’

 ‘-No.’

 ‘Look, John…’

 ‘I’m not speaking. And you won’t find anyone else. He doesn’t have friends; he never did,’ John said, turning away.

 The teacher took hold of his shoulder lightly to stop him.

 ‘John-’ he tried. But John shook off his hand and walked to the seats, taking the back row and staring blankly at the front where they’d set up a kind of stage for people to speak.

  _He doesn’t have friends._

_He just had me._

 

 

 The principle took their place at the front of the room, almost every pair of eyes on them, waiting for the announcement of confirmation for the gossip that had spread like wildfire throughout the morning.

 John looked away as they sound-checked the microphone and began. When they finally started, John glanced around the room at all the people Sherlock never knew or liked.

 John closed his eyes against the solemn faces, and the occasional tears, abruptly flooded by irritation. Not one of them had the right to be sad.

 

 

 Sherlock liked to complain about how predictable everyone always was. Especially when John got him to watch James Bond (he’d been horrified when he’d found out he didn’t know what it was. The solar system was one thing, but James Bond? John just wasn’t having it). Though when John finally forced him into an evening marathon, he had been surprisingly less rude about it than he’d expected, almost openly admitting to have enjoyed it. At least in John’s mind. When he’d mentioned this to him, Sherlock had just raised an eyebrow and said, ‘I never knew that, “that was almost not unbearable,” meant, “I liked this.” I’ll keep that in mind and to be sure to be more careful about not saying it next time.’

 Not surprisingly, Sherlock never said it again. At least not that John heard.

 

 The most common complaint of this sort, however, was in regards to people. Specifically, the people Sherlock _knew._ Or as he liked to call it: deal with. (‘So I’m here because you “ _deal with me,”’_ John had joked when he’d heard this for the first time.)

 Ironically, John heard this most when they were in the library; the most predictable place Sherlock could be -and where John _always_ found him. Sherlock was often on the receiving end of glares and giggles, especially after the fairly regular incidents or rows with the teachers in his most boring subjects.

 One day, John had just come back from a p.e lesson (another one of Sherlock’s most hated) and found Sherlock in the library in his usual place. Before John had even managed to drop himself into the chair nearest to him, his friend had already started his usual complaining routine.

 ‘But they’re _insufferable_ , John,’ he’d started. John settled himself into the chair and leaned forward to listen. ‘It’s as if they’re all programmed from birth to be stupid. How does society function when everyone is so _busy_ being _boring?’_

 ‘I don’t know. I guess not everyone gets to be as clever as you,’ John said lightly.

 Sherlock huffed. ‘Maybe if they all just started making an _effort_ to be, instead of spending their time being like… _that_ ,’ he motioned subtly to the group of people standing by a table, John followed his gaze then turned back to him questionably.

 ‘What are they…’ he started, before he caught the sound of a few of their whispers.

  _‘Oh my god, why would he do that?’_

_‘He’s just weird.’_

_‘No, he’s a_ freak _.’_

_‘Ugh, I wish he’d just, like, leave.’_

‘… John,’ Sherlock’s eyes were wide, staring at him almost fearfully.

 John stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the library floor.

 ‘No, John. Don’t.’

 John sighed in exasperation. ‘ _You_ were just complaining about them.’

 Sherlock looked up at him pleadingly. ‘No, you’ll just make it worse. Please.’

 John stared him straight in the eye for at least ten seconds, conflicting emotions warring inside him, before he finally gave in in favour of the desperation in his friend’s eyes, and he resumed his seat next to him.

 

 

 John was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of the principle’s voice. His mind had drifted and he’d ignored them through the entire speech, right up until the end.

 ‘Struggling with grief is always difficult, and everyone always experiences it very differently. Anything and everything you feel is valid and perfectly normal, because there is no _right_ way to respond to a suicide… Some of you may feel guilty, or sad, or angry, or maybe you won’t be as affected. But however it is that you respond, I know we’ll all miss him, and if anyone ever needs to talk, we’ve employed our new guidance councillor, and she’s always available for you to speak to.’

 John almost laughed. People were going to care? People were going to miss him all of a sudden? Is that all it takes to be cared about? Dying?

 How could all these people feel entitled to their sadness?

 The freak they’d never respected was dead. What did they expect?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, this isn't going to be like Thirteen Reasons Why. I'm going to go out of my way to avoid romanticising any mental illnesses, and I'll try to keep it as far from triggering as possible.  
> (With that, I'd also appreciate it if you'd comment at any point if you think something I write is too triggering, so I can try to edit it out.)  
> Please stay safe, guys.


	3. Chapter 3

 John stared down unconsciously at the slightly darkened pavement beneath his feet, not seeing the blur of his legs as they moved forward interchangeably at an instinctual, steady pace. He barely noticed when the ground beneath him changed and he looked up automatically, his eyes focusing slowly onto a small apartment building in front of him.

 Tentative, he made his way slowly to the building, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his head bowed, soft puffs of steam floating in front of his eyes and touching his face softly, warming it for a second before disappearing without a trace. He stepped up onto the porch, pulling his left hand out of his pocket, the cold metal stinging his fingertips slightly as he turned the key in the keyhole and allowed the door to swing open soundlessly.

 He stepped inside into the darkness and let the front door shut behind him. Careful to alert any of the house’s occupants of his arrival, he walked quietly through the hallway and up the stairs, dropping his hand, letting it hang down by his side in careless defeat, and slanting sideways as he climbed the steps, his arm and hair brushing the plastered wall of the staircase until he raised his right foot into the air, not noticing he’d reached the top, and feeling a sickening jolt of dread in his stomach as it dropped down to the floor further than he’d been prepared for.

 He stopped for a moment and stared down at his shoe, breathing hard and feeling the dread gradually recede. His eyes blurred, creating a kaleidoscope of shoes in front of him and he could feel his heart beat slowly in his chest.

 Then a wave of shock came crashing into him, nearly pushing him off his feet and to the floor. He clutched the wall for support as he tipped over, struggling to inhale as his throat and chest closed up. His vision completely blurred, and he barely heard the sound of the door opening or the footsteps walking a pace into the room, before the door shut loudly and John was snapped out of his panic and he scrambled up the stairs and into his room as quietly as he could.

 He dropped onto the ground by his closed door and clutched his shirt tightly, letting his head fall back onto the wood, his chest heaving in relief as his air pipes reopened and allowed way for oxygen.

 He didn’t move, even when the afternoon sun lowered so the sky turned orange and London turned to evening, and then to night. He sat by his door and watched the few visible stars appear in the sky above him. They were beautiful.

 He felt nothing.

 

 John didn’t know what time it was when he felt the knock on the door behind him. He barely even registered it, but then Harry’s voice called through the wood and he opened his eyes properly and stood up, turned around and faced the door.

 He opened it slightly and was met with a kind smile. He didn’t return it. ‘Dinner’s ready,’ she said, and he nodded almost imperceptibly before she turned around to leave.

 He didn’t move for about a minute, staring down the short hallway to the top of the stairs where she’d disappeared. Then his mother called him to the table and he lurched forward slightly and made his way into the dining room, taking his seat at the table and allowing his sister to take his usual job of setting the table as he stared blankly at the cracks of age in the plasterwork of the wall and the smoke floating into the room from the kitchen stove and out through the window, disappearing into the wind.

 He closed his eyes for a second, then reopened them and looked down at the plate that had been placed in front of him. He glanced around to see that both Harry and his parents had settled at the table, and, taking his cue, he lifted his arms heavily to pick up his cutlery and half heartedly pretended to eat. He didn’t pay attention to the steady conversation at the table until his mother looked up at he and Harry expectantly.

 ‘I heard there was a suicide last night, who was it?’ she asked.

 John swallowed as his stomach dropped and he picked up his cup to take a sip of water to hide his face behind the clear glass for as long as he could, then set it down in front of him reluctantly when Harry responded for him.

 ‘Someone in the year above me called Sherlock Holmes,’ she glanced at John subtly.

 Their dad looked up from his plate, his face indifferent, ‘Holmes?’ she nodded. ‘Wasn’t he that fag you were friends with, John?’ he asked, nodding at his son.

 John swallowed thickly and shook his head.

 ‘You had him over once, didn’t you?’ his mum asked.

 ‘Uh, yeah. For an assignment, it was nothing, I barely knew him. He didn’t have any friends.’

 ‘Well thank god for that,’ his dad said loudly, distaste in his voice. His mother sat beside him, shaking her head as if to say, _good riddance_.

 John looked down at his plate in shame, too empty to feel the resentment he knew he should feel.

 

 John waited for his sister to ask to leave the table before he asked to do the same, having pushed the food around his place to give the impression there was less than there had been when it had been served. He stood up from the table and took his plate into the kitchen, then trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.

 He was stopped right before he reached his door by a hand on his shoulder, turning him around carefully. When it succeeded, he was met with a painfully concerned look, and he looked away to his left to avoid eye contact.

 ‘John?’ He looked at his sister briefly and hummed in acknowledgement. ‘Hey, look. I know you were closer with him that what you said at dinner.’

 John inhaled sharply.

 ‘Look, if you need anything-’

 ‘I can, what? Talk to you? Cry with you? What do you expect me to do? What do you expect _you_ could do to help, Harry?’

 She swallowed thickly and took a deep, shaky breath. ‘I don’t know.’

 ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. Because I don’t need your help, anyway. I barely knew him. I’m _fine_.’ He turned around swiftly and walked into his room, closing the door behind him and turning his back on the biggest lie he’d ever told.

 And judging by the look on her face, Harry knew it too.

 

 He stared up at his ceiling in the dark, allowing the silence of the night to consume him, abandoning the useless attempt at catching sleep he’d tried for hours. Suddenly, he sat up and turned so his feet were just touching the floor, his legs hanging over the side of his bed.

 He reached for his bag, pulling it from where it was slumped against his bedside table in defeat and towards his shin. He unzipped the front pocket and fished through it until his hand closed around the cold metal of his phone. He withdrew his arm from the bag and kicked it away from him, brought his legs back onto his bed and shuffled backwards until his back rest against the pillows pressed against the headboard, his phone clutched to his chest.

 He sat still for a moment, his pulse increasing slightly in anxiety before pulling the phone from his torso and pressing down the on button lightly, squinting as the bright light flared in his eyes.

 He opened the SMS app, letting his finger hover hesitantly over one of the chat rooms, his eyes blurring slightly before he let his finger fall and the old conversations were recalled.

 He ran his finger down over the screen, scrolling past old conversations before it was brought to a halt without warning and the old words glared at him, nostalgia filling the hollowness in his body, susceptible and vulnerable to new emotions.

 He closed his eyes and felt the world dissolve around him.

 

 

 He closed his bedroom door behind him and leaned against it, clutching his phone to his chest, his eyes closed and his mouth open in a genuine smile. He bit his lip as he looked down at his phone, then leaned forwards to push away from the door and walked to his bed, sitting on the edge, fidgety with nervousness and excitement as his phone lay on the covers beside his thigh.

 His heart jumped in his throat as the screen lit up with a new notification and he picked it up eagerly, unlocking his phone and reading the text message, his cheeks hurting from the grin on his face. He tapped the top of the screen where it read, ‘ _Unknown number_ ,’ and typed in the new contact name. ‘ _Sherlock Holmes._ ’

 He returned to the text space and typed out his reply.

**Today, 6:46pm**

_Received:_ Hello, John. -SH

  _Sent:_ Hey :)

  _Received:_ You’re an emoji-person. Charming. -SH

  _Sent:_ Glad you’re charmed ;)

  _Received:_ Of course you are. -SH

  _Sent:_ :P

 The conversation went silent for a few minutes, and the excitement began to recede and he was about to put away his phone, before it buzzed again and he reopened it.

  _Received:_ Thank you for today, John. -SH

 John smiled to himself.

  _Sent:_ You’re welcome

  _Received:_ I suppose it’s because you ‘don’t endorse bystanding violence,’ though, of course. -SH

  _Sent:_ No, I do not. How did you know? :P

  _Received:_ An educated guess. -SH

  _Sent:_ Of course. How clever

  _Received:_ Yes, I am. -SH

  _Sent:_ Yeah, you are

 

 

 The phone had gone silent for about ten minutes after that, until it had lit up just one more time that night. John looked down at the last text of that day; their last word of their first day.

 

**Jan 29th, 2010 7:02pm**

  _Received:_ Thank you, John Watson. -SH


End file.
